Challenge
by The Haine au Carre
Summary: REWRITING
1. 936: We are at War

**936 — We Are at War**

They were at war — and a war zone it was. The streets were covered in a sauce of blood, sprinkled with debris from buildings, and topped with scattered bodies, bloodied and burned. There were women and children screaming and crying, desperately but fruitlessly clinging to life. Men, once dutifully protecting their city and more importantly their lives, were now drowning in their own personal kiddy-pools of red. Gunshots and explosions still rung like foreboding birds in the early morning. One couldn't even walk without stepping on an appendage or two.

Fuery knew he should be out there, assisting his comrades in the mass slaughtering. After all, it was his duty. But, he couldn't. He tried to calm himself from his sweating, hyperventilating state, but he knew if he wandered from the comfort of his alleyway, only tainted by a stream of blood... He knew regret would fill him whole and his heart would shatter. He was but a man of pure, pacifist thoughts. Normally, he was without hostility, so it's only natural he would panic in a setting such as this. Plus, he was just a Communications Expert, he shouldn't be here!

However, they were at war and he had a duty to serve and fight for his country. What would the Colonel say?

Fuery tightened his grip on the strap of his issued shotgun and tried to calm his erratic breathing. Deeming himself calm enough, the raven-haired man slowly crept from his safe haven. His already dark eyes dimmed a shade as he took in his surroundings. His boots made a splash as it met with a puddle of blood, staining them almost immediately. The air was humid and depressing; the clouds dark and rumbling. And as the first drops of rain fell, a fallen woman crawled near him.

Both of her legs were severed, flesh flapping as she army crawled her way to him. Her blood formed a trail behind her and her face was tired, pained, and red. She struggled to speak, voice like gravel and the blood pooling in her mouth gurgled and spat.

"K— kill...me," she wheezed, latching a bleeding palm onto his leg.

Fuery found himself deeply disturbed, but pitying the woman as well. His breath sped up and tears pricked the corners of his wide eyes. This woman was asking him to end her, no doubt to put her out of her pain. So, if he killed her, he'd be doing her a favor. He'd be helping the pitiful woman, r-right? Right?

So, the brunette chanted that prospect over and over in his head and at the same time raising his gun. It quivered along with his shaking hands. She continued to plead him, eyes already looking dead to the world. Fuery took a long breath and steady his arms, tapping the tip of his shotgun to her head. "M—may your tortured soul find p—peace," he stuttered, voice cracking.

The shot was never heard over an explosion in the distance, but it still echoed in Fuery's heart.


	2. 12: Addicted to Your Touch

**12 — Addicted to Your Touch**

Gracia Hughes— oh, the pitiful widowed soul— sat in solitude on her plush green couch. The midnight glow through the opaque curtains was not the only thing dull, but she too, had lost her former shine. The living room was too tidy, and it had stayed that way — ever since that evil took her beloved, her Maes.

Sipping on her bitter tea, it fit her mood, she riveted at the carpet and studied its every hair. As she somehow managed to make out her deceased husband's chipper grin, she flinched and instead focused her cloudy gaze straight ahead. Her mind wandered; she remembered every kiss, every hug, and every heated night they gave one another. She remembered being adored, loved, and at the same time, his best friend. They were like lovestruck teenagers, really.

Gracia acted strong for her child — her child whom looked painfully, yet thankfully, similar to her doting father — but the bright little youth had the mind of her father. Elicia could see right through her mirthful facade. She, too, acted strong for her mother, who was already so _broken_.

They both missed him severely; everyone did, but none more than Gracia. Maes was like her off-the-shelf medication — his smile, his voice, his _touch_,and him alone. He soothed her; made her happy. She, over time, did become addicted to her medication. And at the time, that wasn't such a bad thing, either. But now, her prescription was empty.

She couldn't just go get a refill.


	3. 23: All That Lives Must Die

**23—All That Lives, Must Die.**

As the son of a scientist and as a future alchemist himself, Edward was a very rational, pragmatic child. He didn't play with toy trains or play 'pretend' with the boys down the street, but instead read books and practiced the science and art of alchemy. Nor did he cry over a lot of things, like most his age.

"All that lives, must die." That's what Edward told himself when his goldfish had died. He did not cry, he did not mourn; he got over it. When his father left the family of three — himself, his little brother, and his mother — he grit and bared it, for his own sake and for his family's. And his little mind, his father, too, had died. But he didn't cry. That's also what he told himself when his mother died. He did not cry, he did not mourn, but rather accepted that she was gone and wouldn't come back no matter what he tried. Not by alchemy, not by anything. He acted strong.

He got through it; he got over it. Because he knew that all that lives, must die.

Now, grown and clad in black, he stood straight. His cloudy golden eyes ran over his brother's pale, unmoving body. How did this happen — no, how could he have_ let_ this happen? They always told each other that they would be there, forever. However, that was a childish promise on both of their parts. After all, all that lives must die.

Beside him, Winry sympathetically rubbed the hysterical blonde's quivering arm. Slowly, she wrapped him in a sideways embrace. But he didn't respond to it, nor to her comforting words. His eyes were stuck, gazing longingly his brother's face. The young scientist never acknowledged an Absolute Being; a god. He probably never would, but he hoped that if there was a heaven, that Al made it safely to its gates. One day, when the elder Elric died as well, they could be reunited, in a sense.

As he shifted in his childhood friend's arms, he mumbled, "all that lives, must die." Locking the female in his arms, his face contorted in a twisted mix of sorrow, anger, and guilt. When she felt hot liquid on the breast of her black dress, she tightened her hold on the shaking male. He cried for his goldfish, he cried for his dad, and he cried for his mother all in that one moment.

Eyes around him softened — those of Grandma, the bastard Fuhrer and his hawk-eyed wife, and of many others. Not once had they seen the prodigy cry, for he was strong. At least, he believed he was strong, because he did not cry, even if he wanted to. But maybe, now that he thought about it, does crying over something he truly cared about weak? Perhaps it made him strong to be able to show his emotions.

"Be strong, Ed." Winry breathed into his collar.

Yes, he thought, I will be. He would cry for all that lives, and all that dies.


	4. 34: And Be Sure to Say Please

**34 — And Be Sure to Say Please**

It was a pleasant noonday. The sun was not hidden by clouds, and the weather was agreeable. Today, the sweet and gentle Trisha Elric wanted to bake a cake for her two sons. After all, they had been locked up in their father's abandoned study for days, researching and practicing their alchemy — just like her Hohenheim!

"And remember Edward, Alphonse," the woman shook a motherly finger at the boys, smiling brightly, "be sure to say please!" They whined and fidgeted under her instruction, eager to go into town already.

As impatient as ever, the older of the brothers huffed, "yeah, yeah! Can we go now, ma?"

Beside him, his little brother gaped at his crude manners and nudged him with a boney elbow. Edward, his golden blond plait swooshing as his head snapped to his right, hissed in pain; his eyes accusing. Alphonse gave his big brother a look and received one right back, before they both turned back to their amused mother.

"Yes ma'am!" they gave her the brightest smile they could muster as they chorused like song birds. They stole a quick hug and kiss from their mother, darted out of the house, and ran all the way to town. Edward wasn't even seven years old yet — his brother only five — so for the two, going shopping all by themselves was sort of a big deal. After all, responsibility was a whimsical thing to a child.

They passed through town — barely stopping to greet the townspeople, as they had a mission to complete — and once they reached the market, they whipped their heads around in awe. Their mom had taken them once or twice to get something for dinner, but never had they been by themselves. Naturally, everything looked much bigger when you weren't riding on your mom's back or being carried. They could smell sweet aromas of fruits and freshly baked bread and the light chattering was upbeat. Everything looked so delicious!

But, as his big yet irresponsible brother nearly wandered off in the direction of a sweets booth, he had to remind him that they were here on a mission. They were to buy a carton of eggs and some sugar. Mother hadn't told them what for, but they were glad to go anyway. Of course, Alphonse was handling the money, since he knew his brother would misplace it. He loved him to death, but he was just so helpless!

After getting Edward to count the money, which took three consecutive tries, they deduced that they had more than enough to buy the required ingredients _and _some sweets. Needless to say, Edward was ecstatic. After buying the eggs and sugar, they found themselves drooling at colorful candies, sparkles in their eyes.

A notably tall man barely noticed the kids over the edge of the counter; he crossed his arms and asked in a friendly but quipping tone, "Hey, runts. Anything you need? You're drooling all over my merchandise."

"S—sorry, Mr. Black," Al jumped, and pulled his brother back as well when he didn't move at all. Edward recovered quickly, pointing a finger at the middle aged man, grinning ear to ear, "Hey, old man! What can we get for a dollar?" The man smiled, despite his rudeness, and waved over to a certain rack of suckers and lollipops. Edward began to drool once again, but quickly cleared his throat and wiped his tiny mouth, grinning.

"Give us those two right there!"

Al elbowed him in a similar manner as earlier, reminding his big brother of their mother's words before they left. "Be sure to say please. Yeah, whatever, Al," Edward mumbled and flashed the man a prize-winning grin, "Those two right there, _please_."

Not only did they later receive a cake to soothe their sweet tooth, but also enjoyed two rainbow lollipops on the way home from the market. Edward could now brag to the brothers' friend, Winry, that they went to the market — all by themselves!


	5. 88: Bloody Sunday

**88 — Bloody Sunday**

When someone says the word Sunday, as the person varies, several different things come to mind.

For some, Sunday is the day to put on your finest ensemble and huddle into the House of God to rejuvenate their souls. Others, the day to shop for weekly groceries or to do laundry. Maybe read the paper, sleep in, watch cartoons, do some gardening, or maybe just sit around the house with knots in your belly at the thought of going to work the next day. However, in the simple, albeit twisted, mind of a certain arsonist, Sunday had rather _bloody — _not to mention explosive _— _outlook.

On the strong, stubbly jaw of a one Solf J. Kimblee, a feral grin grew. His eyes were a splash of gold in a sea of white, a contracted pupil swimming helplessly in the middle. He observed the calm town, rubbing his tattooed palms together eagerly.

To say the man was excited would be an extreme understatement, he was practically jumping with delight. Few were not gathered into the rather ramshackle church in the center of the small establishment; the handful that weren't were either loitering the streets and/or drinking. Despite that, it was a fine town. Practically giggling, the able-bodied savage happily scrolled down his mental list of ways to destroy it.

Bomb the edge of the church and watch them scatter like cockroaches? Blowing the church all together might make for an interesting reaction. Or maybe, he should just blast the entire town and watch them run around like chickens with their heads cut off — on fire! Ah, he couldn't decide!

Just a clap, then a small brush of his hands and **BOOM. **Laughing deliriously as he snaked his way to the back of the small house of prayer, he did just so against the peeling white paint. A faint glow, a lovely tingling sensation on his palms, and then he ran off. He was anxious to get to high ground, not because he was worried about the explosion hitting him, but because he wanted to see the whole town be reduced to a mere pile of ashes, burning bodies, and debris.

And he did, after all, Sunday was his lucky day. Just another blood Sunday, he thought as he cackled, a fiery red glow dancing over his skin.


	6. 279: Food Fight!

**279 — Food Fight**

The office was unusually hushed. As a person who was used to working in a chaotic work environment (full of gun-happy lieutenants, dogs, screaming pipsqueaks, and other various distractions), Colonel Mustang found it quite unnerving. He could hear the birds outside and the scratch of his pen and honestly, it was making him fidgety. Flipping paper after paper, scribbling on a few, he sighed and dramatically abandoned his pen on the oak desk. Another unusual thing: he was actually doing his own paperwork. _Where_ was everyone else and _why_ weren't _they_ doing it?

The daunting silence was broken by the deep scolding of his stomach. Ah, the pyromaniac then recollected, I set my breakfast on fire. It was to be expected. The scuffed bottoms of his desk chair screeched across the floor; his limbs branched out in a deep stretch. He groaned, feeling a slight burn in his stiff muscles tautened and his vertebrae popped. The dark brunette's boots clunked noisily on the paneling and his gloved hands threw open the large wooden doors that connected to the main office to his own.

The Colonel hummed long and deep in affirmation. His associates' quarters were void of their loud occupants. In the far edge of the room, Black Hayate was urinating on the wall and keeping a cautious eye out for its master. Hell, if he were the dog, Roy would also avoid her atypical, not to mention cruel, ways of home breaking. He was half expecting the lieutenant to knock down the doors and shoot a round at the poor pup.

After a few seconds to see if she actually would, he murmured to himself, "This is odd." The corridors were empty as well, though a few lower ranking personnel politely greeted him and were on their way. Further down the long halls, his ears made out shouting in the direction of the mess hall. His pace quickened and his strides lengthened. The Colonel came face to face with the large double doors of the mess hall.

Right when he pushed them open, albeit a bit dramatically, something squishy — and cheesy, he found when he licked his lips — slapped him in the face. Quite literally. He peeled the unidentified substance off of his face and gaped at it, his eye twitching. P—pizza? What the hell? He dropped the offending slice before it stained his gloves before turning to the chaos before him.

A soldier screamed, chucking his food in his poor, unexpected Communication Expert's face, smothering his glasses in something — he wasn't sure. As he further scanned the hall, he could make out his frantic first lieutenant, Riza Hawkeye, firing shots to try and set some order. If anything, it made it worse. Food flung in every direction and hit other soldiers. The Colonel huffed.

"You know what," he started as he barely dodged a fruit cup, "I'm going to eat out today. Riza!"

Said female perked up at the voice of her superior and quickly made her way after his retreating back, barrel-rolling to avoid getting smacked by a plate of leftover pasta. She coughed as she made it out of the doors, shutting them.

"Sir!" She saluted the Colonel as his turned to greet her, "eating out, sir?"

"Yep, feel like Italian?" He chuckled.


End file.
